


Into the Blue

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where John goes when things go FUBAR.</p><p>Re-post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Blue

Rodney's eyes are wide and blue and they're just about all John can see when the head of the Farzgol's military points at John and they drag him into the tiled room behind the glass window. Ford's yell echoes behind the slammed door, so if Rodney says anything, John can't hear it.

_Hurry, Teyla. I think you'd better double-time it._

:::

For one brief summer when John was sixteen, his dad got stationed in Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, and John learned to surf.

He remembers: the first time he stood up, and how two seconds later he whanged his head on the board falling down again, making his buddy Manuku crack up and inhale water he was laughing so hard.

The next day John was riding the waves all the way to the shore.

:::

They'd already stripped his tac vest, the leader going straight for the C-4 that had started this whole mess. One tiny, well-placed charge meant to rescue victims of a cave-in (Ford really is the best demolitions expert John has ever seen. The guy is an _artist_ ) had led to kidnappings and threats and assumptions and John's eyes locking on Rodney's whenever he can, because yeah, maybe these people are stupid enough to assume that Rodney manufactures all their explosives, that he is the only scientist on the team, so of course he _must_ be the guy, but they've hit upon the truth in their idiocy. Rodney could probably make higher explosives in his sleep.

And John is here to say _no way_. No matter what.

Even as they yank off his shirt and pants and tie him to the heavy wooden chair and, hey, lookee here, they've discovered the fun applications of electricity.

John drags his eyes away and nails Rodney's big blue ones again. Rodney looks like he's about to stroke out—his hands are balled into fists and his face is flushed, jaw popping. He mutters something John can't make out behind the glass, but John just shakes his head and deliberately slouches.

His heart is pounding so hard he can feel his pulse dragging against the heavy rope on his wrists.

He's been here before, and he tries to prepare himself, remembering the blue.

:::

Sometimes the waves wouldn't behave, and the surfers would straddle their boards for long minutes, waiting. Talking, or just bobbing in silence. At first John chafed at the inactivity, at having to wait. But then he noticed the way the others would stare out to sea, eyes half open as if they were looking for something other than the next wave, and he began looking, too. And then he began to see it, in the vastness of the blue, and in the rhythm of the swells, and the way the energy flowed, moving them up and down, but never moving the water itself. Unceasing, like eternal music, and when he met Manuku's eyes he saw approval there, and John smiled, a little sheepishly, embarrassed at his earlier impatience.

The waves would come.

:::

There's no car battery, just some weird tubes held together with mesh, and the electrodes aren't car jumpers but sticks with metal ends, but it's a field telephone, all right, or the alien equivalent, and John knows it, because they've stripped him to his boxers and doused him with water, and Rodney knows it, because he's staring at John with utter horror while still babbling something vicious-toned out of the side of his mouth to the leader, who is getting more and more pissed if his expression is any indication.

And Ford—John jerks his chin, indicating that Ford should look away, because Ford shouldn't see this. God, the kid's already had to put the paddles John's chest himself. But Ford's lips press together in a pout and his jaw clenches.

John frowns and jerks his chin again. The woman in the brown khaki uniform is bending down to pick up the electrodes, and John is running out of time. His heart—God, he has to slow it down or he's going to have a heart attack when this starts. He takes a deep breath and then another one, holding it the second time, thinking of the blue, of Manuku smiling as they bobbed on the waves, waiting, and John stares at Rodney and smirks a little and slumps down in the chair.

She walks over, her face severe and grim, hair cut ragged and short, and he sees her hands rise, sees the harsh bones of her wrists and the curious shadows of the wires twisting across her skin, and then he closes his eyes because he doesn't want to see this, he wants to see—

:::

The first time John shot a curl, the translucent blue surrounded him and he reached out and touched it in complete awe, his shout of delight bouncing against the hollow roar that was his entire universe. He chased it through, following the leading edge just as it threatened to collapse around him, until finally it did, swamping him in a warm funnel of salt that felt like the touch of a fond hand.

:::

He comes to with every bone in his body aching, pulled stiff by bundled, twitching muscles, and his back still thrown in a tight arc until he shudders to a rest. The back of the chair is digging into his skull and he lets his head roll down, blinks watery eyes and sees McKay screaming at the military leader. John hopes to God he isn't screaming the formula to Agent Orange or napalm or anything.

Ford is turned away, his shoulders in a furious line, but he spins back when the leader says something, and that woman is leaning toward John again. God, his chest and ribs are burning, and his heart is tripping—it's too soon, they're going to kill him at this rate—Rodney tries to grab the leader's arm and one of the goons pulls him back and smacks him with a fist.

John bucks in his chair, watches helplessly as Ford struggles forward and gets knocked back. This could all get out of hand way too quickly. But then the woman touches John's slick chest with the contacts and the shock hits him, throws him back, and it's everything. Pain is his whole world, and he stares up into the blue.

:::

Manny came on base to say goodbye right before John's father got shipped out. He gave John a shark-tooth necklace, and John gave him a brand-new board leash and some Alpha Flight comics.

Years later he saw Manuku's name mentioned in a pro surfing mag and read an article where they called him the "Buddha of the Waves."

John kind of wished he could write to Manny and thank him for teaching him something he'd found damned useful later on in life.

:::

Hearing comes back first, and it's the beautiful sound of something blowing up sky-high, the deep rumble of underground shockwaves traveling through the bunker.

John opens his eyes and sees the fear in the woman's, and he wants to say something witty but his jaw is locked up still. No matter—the doors are kicked open and suddenly both rooms are swarming with familiar uniforms, and grim-faced marines are staring at the woman with raging eyes that could laser through her. One of the marines grabs her and takes her out, smashing the electrodes under his boots along the way.

Gunny Torveld, who John knows did two full tours in Afghanistan, takes one look at the device on the floor and shoots John an expression that _almost_ winces in sympathy, which is saying a lot for a marine.

"Mind cutting me loose?" John manages to say, his throat hoarse and sore, but he doesn't want to think why, and Torveld nods and pulls his Ka-Bar and cuts John free.

And then it's pure embarrassment, because the Gunny actually has to help John back into his shirt and pants and boots and standing. John's muscles feel like they've been through a taffy-pull, and every so often they go through a series of twitching spasms that almost lay him out on the floor.

"Think you can find where they stashed my vest? I want every bit of my C-4 back, too."

"Sir, yes, sir," Torveld says, but he delegates it to Dyson, who digs up the rest of the team's stuff. Teyla shows up around then and stays by John's other side. The military leader and all the other soldiers they've subdued are bound up and kneeling in the other room, all in a line along the wall.

Rodney is pacing back and forth in front of them, getting his ya-yas out by shooting them fierce looks and, as John staggers in, is asking one of the marines "...are the Geneva Conventions in effect here, Sergeant? I'm unclear on whether they apply, or if we just see what would happen if we applied those electrodes to Commander Do Unto Others' testicles." Rodney spins around and sees John. "Or perhaps the major would like to do it himself."

"Nah, I'm good," John says, trying to make his limp look like an amble as he approaches the leader. John doesn't even know the guy's name. "That is, unless you actually told him anything useful. You didn't, did you, McKay?" John doesn't look at Rodney as he waits for the answer.

"Oh, yes. I told him." Rodney huffs. "I gave him the top secret formula for cyanoacrylate." After a pause and a smirk, Rodney adds, "Superglue."

John grins. "I didn't know you knew that. We could've had some fun with it." John gives the leader a long stare and then crouches down, ignoring the protest of aching muscles so he can get up close and personal with the sweating man. "You're awfully lucky," John says silkily. "Because if you were any goddamned good at your job, we'd have to kill you right now."

Ford makes a sound that John will have to smack him for later. He knows his acting skills are pretty poor, but it's no fair rubbing his nose in it.

Besides. He's had a tough day.

John stands up and has to wait a second while his heart decides to stop skipping around and settles into a regular beat. Carson is going to have a shit-fit about all this. He'll probably want to put him on that portable monitor thing again for a while to make sure things are okay.

But they are. Things are peachy keen. And soon he'll be going home, and Carson will tsk-tsk over the burn marks on his chest, and Dr. Weir will give him that wide-eyed look that she'll hide behind stern brusqueness. She'll make him go see Heightmeyer, and John will spend his mandatory hours trying to figure out if she's read his classified record and knows about his time as a POW, knows he's done this before, danced in the chair to the puppeteer's tune. Rodney will hover more than usual and talk about things John can't understand; Teyla will offer him tea and meditation sessions, but John will go out to the pier and do his meditating there, watching the waves. The waves are always there for him.

And things will be fine. Hell, they already are, because his team is fine—he turns to Teyla and says, "Thanks for the speedy back-up," giving her a grateful smile. She smiles back serenely, but puts a hand on his arm that betrays her underlying concern.

The team, armed once again, troops out with his marines, leaving behind the bound-up military goons and their leader, another address to lock out of the database, another disappointment for Dr. Weir, who was basing hopes on ten thousand year-old records and outdated intelligence from another trading partner.

Okay, maybe John is a little worn out, because he's glad as hell to see the jumper is parked close, a hell of a lot closer than the gate, where the team walked from originally.

He makes it up the ramp and takes a seat on the bench, prompting a look of surprise from McKay, but thankfully no one calls him on his decision not to trust his piloting skills to his shaking, twitching hands. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and when he hears the DHD fire he opens his eyes again and turns his head and watches them go through.

Straight on home, into the blue.

  
_End._


End file.
